


Ductus Exemplo

by Zatsy



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Memory Loss, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15905067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zatsy/pseuds/Zatsy
Summary: Two leaders of the Mojave Wasteland discuss the nature of their cause. Their shoulders are strained and their hearts are heavy.





	Ductus Exemplo

Rain in the Mojave was as common as getting shot in the head and surviving it, which was to say, not common at all. Drizzles came and went, but a downpour like tonight was a rare and precious thing. Dark, billowing clouds blocked out the moon, and the rain blurred the horizon. It made the wasteland more dangerous than usual. Holliday came to her senses and headed back towards the neon comforts of New Vegas. Hunting the Fiends could wait another day. The rain stung her skin as she passed through the east gate of Freeside. Junkies and bodyguards alike huddled under any intact roof they could find. The children that chased around the giant rats were nowhere to be found. The town criers shouted from under decaying awnings to nobody.

The neon signs reflected off of the wet pavement guided her past the second gate and into the heart of Freeside. She saw the towers of the Strip and felt as though her momentum was gone. She heaved a heavy sigh and diverted her path from the Strip towards the King’s School of Impersonation. She gave a passing hello to the door guards and only slight nods to the Kings gathered in the lobby. They returned her nods with due respect and allowed her to pass by them to climb the stairs to the third floor. She barely processed the area in front of her as she stumbled towards a room. Her hand reached for the doorknob but paused, summoning the energy to focus on the sounds around her. A soft crooning came from the jukebox down the hall, as well as some low chatter between a few gang members. When she didn’t hear anything coming from behind the door, she twisted the knob and plodded in. She rolled her shoulders back, sending her backpack to the floor with a dull thump. She trudged to the bedside table and flicked on a lamp. She nudged the bathroom door open and grabbed the edges of the sink. Her gaze connected with her reflection.

The grimy, broken mirror showed her dark circles rounding heavy eyelids. Her hat had kept her face and cropped hair dry, but the rest of her was soaked. Her skin ached from blistering sunburns and the sting of irradiated water. She removed her hat and sat it on the side of the sink. Her short, brown hair relaxed now that it was free. She brushed aside her bangs and gazed at the gnarled bullet scar that sat an inch above her left eyebrow. For a time that felt much too long, she stared at it, hoping that it would melt away and reveal unmarred skin. But no matter how long she stared, nothing came of it. She finally tore her eyes away from her reflection and began removing her soaked clothes. Taking off her shirt felt as though a tremendous weight had lifted from her shoulders. Her movements were slow and sluggish, and she took her sweet time peeling off her many layers. She sat on the edge of the bathtub and examined a rushed bandage job on her thigh from earlier on in the day. She peeled off the gauze and examined the three-inch long gash that she’d taken from a Nightstalker. The wound stung anew as it took a breath of air. Holliday grimaced for only a moment before turning the rusted knobs of the shower.

As frigid water spat out of the faucet, she swung her legs around into the tub and stood up. The shock of cold water faded fast as she tousled her dusty hair. The yellow-tinged water turned brown and red as she scrubbed a week’s worth of grime off of her body. She cursed and balled her fist up against her uninjured thigh. The Stimpak’s effects had worn off, and the gash was starting to sting something fierce. She cranked the knob to turn the water off and stepped out of the tub. She snatched a raggedy towel from the rack and rubbed herself dry, avoiding the gash as much as possible. She wrapped the towel tight around her torso and exited the bathroom.

“I thought I heard you were back,” a smooth, low voice hummed. Holliday only flinched a little at the King’s sudden presence. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was his school, after all. He sat on the side of the bed facing the bathroom, one leg crossed over the other, casually smoking a cigarette. His eyes went from her face to her thigh. “What trouble did you get yourself into now?”

“Nightstalker,” she snipped, breezing past him to get to her backpack. She knelt down and opened up the back pocket with her free hand to yank out a spare set of clothes and a doctor’s bag. She set the clothes on the floor and fiddled with the bag in vain, trying to open it one-handed.

“You can drop the towel, you know,” the King offered. “Ain’t nothin’ I’ve never seen before.” Holliday did not answer him, nor did she drop her towel. “Not in a jokin’ mood, I guess.”

“I’m tired, King,” she huffed as she finally managed to get the bag opened. She pulled out a roll of bandages and a few gauze pads, scooped up her clothes, and made her way back to the bathroom. She shut the door behind her.

“Is that why you’re here instead of your cushy casino?” The King asked, his voice barely muffled by the flimsy door. Holliday dropped her towel and set her clothes on the side of the sink while she patched up her wound. “Your pals are gonna worry when you don’t check in with ‘em.”

“They’re not my keepers. I’m a grown woman, and I can do what I please,” she bit back, tucking the ends of the bandage in and grabbing her clothes. She could feel his hands raise in defense.

“I’m just offerin’ some friendly advice, that’s all. One head honcho to another,”

She remembered to hang her wet clothes on the shower rod before exiting the bathroom again. Her eyes went past the King and stared at the bed. She walked around to the other side and plopped down, and the box spring squealed in protest. He turned to the side to look at her. Her shoulders slumped, and her head hung low to stare at the floor. He could recognize defeat.

The King could still see her as she once was. She was Claire Edgar, a pretty young thing working her ass off to make enough caps to pass the credit check. She never did say where she came from, but her callused hands suggested a childhood of hard labor. She had big dreams of performing as a singer and dancer in the Strip someday. While she was stuck in Freeside, she wanted to do as much for the community as she could. It was an attitude wholly unheard of from someone who wasn’t a Local. Most of the squatters flocked to Freeside because the NCR promised them safety and a change of pace. But Claire wasn’t an NCR citizen, she wasn’t a junkie, and she wasn’t a gambling charity case. Claire approached the King six years ago, fresh faced and looking for work. While he wasn’t keen on it at first, she offered her services to him as both a groupie and a repairwoman. Her gentle curves and cheerful disposition made it easy to accept her as a groupie. But she was determined to be more than a pretty face. Whenever a King had a problem with his gun, Claire swooped in behind him and had it in top-shape before he could blink. When fights erupted, Claire had them chummy again before he had an opportunity to step in. The Kings came to regard her as more than a groupie, but as a member in her own right. And though she had no shortage of men to find comfort in, Claire always stayed by his side. He was fascinated with her. His other groupies were great gals, no doubt, but Claire was someone you could never be bored talking to. She found Pre-War novels and poetry books to read in her spare time, and he could listen to her talk about them for hours. When she performed for them, her soothing voice had everyone making doughy eyes at her. Still, she was a confident, independent woman, and she never swayed from him.

When she started picking up courier work, he spent many nights unable to sleep. Claire was idealistic in a world that ruthlessly punished idealism. She believed there was a peaceful solution to every problem. She wanted to solve everything without violence. She didn’t want to clean up the Kings, or even Freeside. She wanted the whole Mojave Wasteland to be a kinder, gentler place. The King had seen enough conflicts in Freeside during his reign that he knew this wasn’t possible. People would always tear themselves apart fighting each other. He knew that if she tried to shape the world in her image, it would chew her up and spit her back out. He had tried to persuade her to stay by him, that he would take care of her. But she wasn’t having it. Claire did what she pleased.

She didn’t come back from her delivery to the Strip the day she said she would. He had waited up all night to greet her. He felt dread settle in his stomach when days passed with no word about her whereabouts. When it came to be two weeks time, he crawled into a bottle of whiskey and didn’t come out for weeks. He didn’t realize it until she left, but he had loved her. He made himself sick over not telling her sooner. It took months of Pacer and the others coaxing him back to reality, but it felt hollow. There was a hole where Claire Edgar used to be, and no groupie could replace her. But, when it came to be a year after her death, he was numb enough to return to his daily routine.

Then she came back. Her hair was shorter and she went by a different name, but the moment he laid eyes on her, he felt a nagging sense of deja vu. It wasn’t until weeks later, when he heard her singing as she walked past him that he made the connection. Even her name made sense. She had once confided that her father kept a Pre-War holotape of the movie “Tombstone". One of the central characters--her favorite, in fact--was Doc Holliday. His muscles twitched as he went to stand up, grab her tight, and never let go. But before he could, the question of why she hadn’t said anything to him before stopped him. Surely, she remembered him. He could understand wanting to go by an alias or cutting her hair to keep weirdos from grabbing it. But why would she walk into the School and talk to him as if he were a stranger? Come to find out, the reason was that she didn’t remember him. She was shot in the head at Goodsprings, and she had crawled out of her own grave to finish her delivery. A few things seemed to stick with her. She could remember the name of the character from the holotape. She knew why she had been shot, and a description of the man who shot her. Beyond that, it seemed that she didn’t remember anything else. 

His heart broke all over again when he found out. He had never been so torn up about being right before. Now he had what he wanted, but it was a hollow victory when she didn’t even remember him. Seeing her gallivant around Freeside was more painful than it was when she was gone. He put on a brave face whenever she was around, joked with her even, but the sting of her still remained. He offered her to use his room as long as he wasn’t having company, but she didn’t take him up on his offer often.

That is, until now. He tried to make it look as if he wasn’t staring, but he felt so nostalgic for the nights they spent in each other’s company. Sure, she was a bombshell of a woman, but he missed their talks when she cozied up to him at night. He missed having her trail off in the middle of sentences to enjoy the silence. He missed stroking her hair to lull her off to sleep. He missed waking up to her sunshiny face. And now, here she lay, and the King hasn’t felt this alone in a long time.

“Do you wanna tell me why you’re really here?” he asked her. She didn’t say anything for a moment, but rather adjusted herself to lay down on the bed. She looked exhausted on all levels.

Holliday’s eyes drifted to his face as she put her arms behind her head. Her eyelids felt so heavy, but she felt compelled to give him a legitimate answer. She couldn’t explain it, but there was a sense of safety with him that she had come to regard as a luxury. She always had to be on her guard. Her hand always had to be ready to grab her pistol and defend herself from the terrors of the wasteland. Even when she was in the Lucky 38, she felt a stiffness in her posture. Her companions were her friends, of course, but Holliday felt as though she had to be an example for them in a way. She couldn’t allow herself to feel fear or uncertainty. She was the leader of New Vegas, and people both looked up to her and picked her apart looking for a weakness to exploit. But in the King’s presence, she felt the burdens of her responsibility ease a little bit. She didn’t feel as though she had to put on a brave face for him. He was a leader himself, and she could tell that he understood her struggles.

“I’m tired,” she answered. “There’s so much responsibility. I’m put under a microscope all the time. If I slip up and say the wrong thing, that can mean the end of all my hard work,”

“I’m afraid,” she continued. “The battle for Hoover Dam is coming any day now. I’m one person. Am I really going to be able to stand up to the NCR and Caesar’s Legion? What if I don’t stack up to them? What if I succeed?” She pulled one arm out from behind her head and draped it over her eyes. “I’m in way over my head, but I’ve come too far to back out. I just wanted to make a difference.”

“You already have made a difference,” The King responded. “You make waves no matter where you go. It’s just in your nature.”

“And you’d know that how?” she asked, moving her arm off of her face.

“I’ve known you for a while, darlin’. You walked into my HQ and fixed up all my issues that I’ve been rollin’ around for months. Hell, you fixed up Rexie when I thought it wasn’t possible. You’re just the kinda gal that laughs when somebody tells ya somethin’s impossible,” he explained. Holliday didn’t respond. She couldn’t refute that.

“How do you manage it?” she hummed, rolling onto her side to get a better look at him. “You’ve got to have thought some of the same things as me. How do you push past your fears?”

The King was reticent to admit to anyone that he was ever afraid to lead The Kings. “You already know the answer.”

“Do I?”

He sighed. She always was the exception to the rule. “I remember how fast things would go to shit without The Kings. I’m not saying I’m always right, and I can be more than a little biased, but things would be worse off without us. We’re makin’ Freeside better the only way we can.”

Holliday let his answer hang for a moment as she let it roll around in her head. “I guess you’re right.” she said, finally.

“‘Course I am,” he teased. She scoffed at him, but the grin on her face gave her feelings away. His features softened as he watched her smile. “Holliday,” The name was still foreign, and he had to stop himself from saying Claire all the time when talking to her. “You’re doin’ New Vegas better than House was. You want more than to sit back and collect caps. You’re out there in the wasteland tryin’ to make it livable instead of coopin’ yourself up in the Lucky 38. You can’t always know if you’re makin’ the right choice, but you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Holliday’s sarcastic grin became more genuine. Sure, she always thought that she was doing the right thing, but it was reassuring to hear him affirm her choices. She wasn’t proud of every one, but damn it, she was trying. That was more than Mr. House could say about himself.

The King stood up and put out what remained of his cigarette into the ash tray on the night stand. “It’s late. You need to get some rest.” He told her, making his way to the door.

“Leaving so soon? We were getting to the best bits,” she hummed. He opened the door and faced her in the doorway. It was almost unbearable to rip himself away from her now. But she looked exhausted and needed all the rest she could get.

“I’d love to stay, but you’re fallin’ asleep just talkin’ to me. We can talk in the morning,”

Holliday chuckled and admitted defeat by picking up the sheets and pulling them over her lap. “Fair enough. I’ll see you in the morning, then. Good night, King.” She yawned, shifting in the noisy bed in an attempt to get comfortable. He closed the door behind him.

“Good night, Claire.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in a long time, but my friend and I often discuss our Fallout characters in stupid detail. I hope to write more about Holliday in the coming months, schedule permitting.


End file.
